I don't own Supernatural, nor do I claim to not have flipped-shit while writing this and asking, "Why is it always my favorite characters, Kripke?" a million times.
You've never been the kind of girl that takes things softly.
When the news of your daddy's death had shattered the whiskey bottles, you'd hid out in a tree for five days straight. Momma says she was worried sick about you; called for hours and hours but you were so far gone you never heard her. Just hugged the tree like it was your father and didn't cry. You haven't cried since the last time that Bill Harvelle walked out of the Roadhouse and didn't come back.
So you find it perfectly reasonable to cry now. After all, you're dying.
Ironically, it's the same kind of end a Winchester met once. Ripped apart by hounds from Hell with guts spilling onto the floor; yours are held in by an Ace bandage, at least. Dean had never gotten that luxury.
"We've got everything we need," you're saying; eye the way Sam is crying unabashed while Dean is somehow holding it together.
You tell them that if you've got this chance, then you have to take it. It's not as if you're going anywhere. Can't move your legs; never gonna be able to dance again like you used to while standing on your daddy's feet, Landslide playing in the background like some kind of lullaby you haven't heard for years.
It's kind of funny, actually. You would be thinking about childhood memories even when there's nothing but pain and sorrow all around you. Your only method of coping, is what you've surmised over the years. Think about better things and maybe you'll make it out of this.
You're not making it out of this.
Everyone says their goodbyes in their own way. Sam holds your hand between both of his; you forgot just how large the man is. "I'm sorry, for Duluth I mean. I never got to tell you that."
You snort; not like he ever needed to. It wasn't him. You're not Sam. It was that bitch out there who got your guts ripped out. Shoulda' known better than to act like the hero around that thing.
Vaguely, you wonder if Sam and you could've ever been friends. All your attentions had been on Dean, but it seems like maybe they should've been on Sam. He's so lost and it isn't fair and no one can help and you know what it's like to feel alone.
You're so delirious your thoughts are blurring together.
"See you on the other side."
When you blink up at him, you really wish you hadn't. Dean Winchester doesn't cry. Neither do you, but you are, but Dean shouldn't be. "Probably sooner than later."
With the last of your energy, you smile; hand him the shotgun Rufus gave you before parting ways. "Make it later."
You'd always thought your first kiss with Dean would lead to a lot more. Maybe you'd both be drunk. He'd take you back to whatever Motel room he was staying in and fuck your brains out and then your girlish heroworship of a crush would be over. That was a long time ago though, and this is now. And in this now, he tastes like the blood in your mouth and you can feel his tears mixing with your own and the way he desperately holds you is terrifying.
As he breaks away, you turn to look at something, anything that isn't him. "Okay," he says, and, "okay," you say and that's that.
Momma won't leave. She's not going to let you die alone. Even when you beg, she says she's staying, and you feel her featherlight at your side. Will Dad be waiting for us? you wonder. Will I go to Hell? God knows you've sinned enough in your life to end up on the Rack. From the moment you lost your daddy, it's been one mistake after another.
When you tell Momma you love her too, it doesn't come out all the way. You're so tired; numb. Ready for this all to be over.
You see the light.
Waiting on the interim, you blink. There's so much undone and still here and you'd like to stay but you shouldn't. Really shouldn't… Then why do you turn your back on the light and walk the opposite way?